She started to think, plan, directing her anxiety into productivity. They would need a suitcase of clothes, warm stuff for the nights, a wash bag and towels. They’d need to be totally self-sufficient for a while, until they set themselves up again, so sleeping bags and a tent. Where would they be? The loft of course, along with the suitcases they hadn’t used since Zoe’s death.
Pulling herself from the window, she fetched the hooked pole and opened the loft hatch, stepping sideways to dodge the flurry of dust the descending ladder dislodged. She knew this house, her hated prison of the last nine months, so well that she could function perfectly in the dark.
As she reached the top of the ladder and stepped into the loft, seeing nothing but lumpy, unformed shapes in the darkness, the smell of dust and decay was elemental and unnerving. She hadn’t been up here since the day they’d moved in, since she’d helped Roger carry the detritus of their old lives and stow it up here, too raw to decide yet what to keep and what to throw away.
Moonlight from the single velux window cast a milky glow into the centre of the loft, dimming to near blackness at the edges. Carolynn waited until her eyes had accustomed to the graduating shades of darkness and then looked around her. The suitcases were stacked against the far wall, by the brick chimneystack, the tent and sleeping bags piled on top. All their travel gear parked in one dusty, neglected heap.
As she moved across the loft, stepping over taped-down cardboard boxes filled with trinkets salvaged from their old life that no longer held any importance, feeling dust grind under her soles, her eye was caught by a glint.
She froze, her breath catching in her throat.
Oh God, what is it?
An eye? It looked like the eye of a night creature trapped in headlights.
Her heart beating so hard it was almost punching its way out of her chest, she stepped forward and, as though it were a separate being, watched her hand reach out and lift the flap of the box.
A pale face, gelid eyes, a cheap, pink ballerina dress stretched tight over a plump body.
A doll.
The box contained a doll. Its blue eyes catching the moonlight and reflecting it back at her, the frozen, glassy eyes of horror films and nightmares. A doll that she recognized. Carolynn laughed – she couldn’t help herself – a startled horrified laugh, halfway between a bark and a yelp.
She reached for the doll, then stopped, her hand hovering, unable to force herself to touch it, unable even to catch her breath. The doll was identical to the one that had been left by Zoe’s body and by Jodie Trigg’s.
Rearing back from the box, Carolynn jammed her eyes shut, trying to erase the images of the doll and the memories it had surfaced in her mind.
Why is there a doll next to her? She’s not a girly girl. She hates dolls.
Reaching for it, pushing it away from her daughter, leaving her fingerprints all over its disgusting, bloated body.
Backing away from the box, she skirted quickly around the edge of the loft, grabbed the tent and sleeping bags in one hand, the largest suitcase in the other, desperate now to be out of this cramped, stuffy space, desperate to escape. Escape from this house, from the crumbling edifice of her life.
With Roger though or without? Could she trust him? Did she really know him at all?
32
Jessie’s mother’s tone rose in surprise when she heard her daughter’s voice on the line. When had she last telephoned her mother? She couldn’t actually remember.
‘Did you manage to deal with the emergency, darling?’
Emergency? It took Jessie a moment. ‘Yes, all sorted.’
‘So you’re back at home? That’s good.’
Should she lie? It would be easier, but she’d telephoned her mum to build bridges between them and lying wouldn’t be a great start.
‘No, I’m at the beach.’
‘With Ben? For the weekend?’
Her mother had only met Callan once, the day that she and Richard had announced their engagement. She had called Jessie the week before to say that they were visiting friends in Guildford for lunch and could they pop in for tea on the way home. Pop in. Her and Jessie’s relationship still too fragile, too distant for her just to ask if they could visit for the day without fabricating an excuse. Jessie had long since given up trying to analyse their relationship, as each attempt raised too many memories of Jamie, of life before his suicide, of an uncomplicated happiness she barely remembered before a piece of her heart was permanently severed. She had been alone for so long that self-reliance was woven into her DNA. She felt as if she was no one’s daughter any more, Ahmose the closest thing to family. Ahmose and now Callan, if she didn’t screw it up. Continue to screw it up.
‘No, I’m alone, Mum. Ben’s not here.’
A surprised intake of breath echoed down the line. ‘Where is he?’
‘In Surrey, at my cottage.’ Unless he’s gone back to barracks in a temper, which I can’t rule out given our last conversation.
‘It’s Friday night, darling …’
‘Yes.’
‘So …’ The single
